"Power, power, man," cried the other impatiently. "Money is just metal, its value lies in the grip it gives you over other men, and if you don't even care for that, there's the joy of chancing it. And you were a born gambler, Aymer, you can't deny that," he laughed heartily, but also again came the quick sidelong glint of his eyes. "Think of it, old fellow," he said carelessly, dropping his enthusiastic tone, "it would be a good deal better for you than doing nothing. It's such wicked waste." For the first time Aymer winced. "I'll think of it, and let you know if it's likely to be entertained. I have the boy, you know; that gives me something to do." "Poof! Let him bring himself up if you want to make a successful man of him. The more he educates himself, the better he'll get on. If you do it, you'll make him soft. _I_ know! Public School: University: Examinations, and L200 a year if he's lucky. That's your education! All very well if you are born with a golden spoon in your mouth and can afford to be a fool. If you can't, better learn to rough-and-tumble it in the world. Education doesn't make successful men." "You were not exactly uneducated, Peter," said Aymer drily. Peter grinned. "Ah, but I was a genius. I couldn't help it. It would have been the same had I been born in the gutter. No, I believe in the rough-and-tumble school to make hard-headed men." "Well, for all you know, Christopher may be a genius, or be born with a golden spoon in his mouth." The other looked up sharply. "Nevil has a boy of his own, hasn't he?" "Don't be a fool if you can help it, Peter. Other people have golden spoons besides the gilded Aston family." Peter shrugged his shoulders. "It's no business of mine, of course, but the boy looks sharp. Pity to spoil him. Ha, Ha. I don't spoil mine." He got up yawning and sauntered over to the fireplace and so did not see Aymer's rigid face go white and then red. "I've got a boy--I think it's a boy--somewhere. Daresay you've forgotten. You weren't very sociable, poor old chap, when it happened. About a year after your accident. He's about somewhere or other. Oh, I back my own theories! I don't suppose he's a genius, so the rough-and-tumble school for _him_." "You know the school?" "I can put my hand on him when I want to--that's not yet. The world can educate him till I'm ready to step in." "If he'll have you." Peter chuckled. "He won't be a fool--even if he's not a genius. Well, you think of my proposition, I'll go halves." "How you have disappointed me, Peter. I thought you called from a disinterested desire to see me after all these years." "Twelve years, isn't it? Well, you look better than you did then. I didn't think you would come through--didn't think you meant to. I'm sorry to miss Cousin Charles. He doesn't approve of me, but he's too polite to say so, even in a letter. How does he wear?" "Well, on the whole. He works too hard." The other spread out his hands.